


Demons

by eirabach



Series: Renegades [3]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Captain Swan AU - Freeform, F/M, Humor, Poor Life Choices, fairy tales aren't all that, threequel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-07-17 23:36:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16106135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eirabach/pseuds/eirabach
Summary: They say the truest quality of heroism is mercy.Heroism is overrated.(A threequel to Renegades and Heathens)





	1. Begin Again

* * *

_Once upon a time, the rules were written thusly:_

 

_That a brave prince and a sweet hearted princess must always fall in love._

 

_That you should never trust a crone bearing gifts._

 

_That magic is powerful and dangerous and corruption is never far from its reach._

 

_That the truest quality of heroism is mercy._

 

_But above all, the most important was this:_

 

_That  all fairy tales have happy endings for their heroes. For the kings and the queens and for the brave common lad who brings a giant to their knees. For the princess rescued from her tower and the children rescued from the fire._

 

_Such are the tales the young ones are told, each character cast in the brightest light, their colours dancing over the pages of a hundred bedtime stories._

 

_In those tales they do not speak of the times heroes falter. Or the ways they may they have lied, deceived, even murdered in the pursuit of that sweetest happily ever after._

 

_Perhaps none of it matters when heroes win, the bards will not sing of their crimes while they rule. No one writes stories about their failures._

 

_No. Fairytale heroes reign unblemished and adored from golden thrones, loved and loving for an impossible eternity._

 

_Emma Swan’s had been one such tale. How she had lived a life of misery and loneliness, betrayed by the only family she’d ever known, until the day she’d met the most unlikely of heroes. Together, the lost Princess and the Pirate Captain had traversed the realm and returned the King and Queen to their rightful thrones destroying darkness and banishing evil in their wake._

 

_Fairy tales always end happily ever after._

 

_As it turns out though, this isn’t one._

 

_\---_

 

The late afternoon light filters through the canopy of the sails and casts long shadows across the salt bleached deck. Somewhere far below Emma can hear the frantic squawking of the Captain, but she pays him little heed and instead turns her face toward the sun and smiles into the warm breeze.

 

She loves it up here, her feet dangling in the rigging and the mainmast softly swaying at her back. She can see for miles over the crystal ocean, hear the seabirds higher still, and she treasures the opportunity to be alone with her own thoughts on a ship where her every move is dogged by -

 

“Begging your pardon, my lady,” pants a voice from the rigging below, “but Captain Erving says - ”

 

Emma fails to restrain her groan as she leans over the edge of the crow’s nest, her unwilling would-be rescuer flushing pink under her glare.

 

Captain Erving is currently at the very top of her personal list of irritants. Not only does his title set Killian’s teeth on edge everytime one of the enlisted men calls for him, he’s about as far from happy to be accompanying them as Emma is to have him here. He’s a small, round-faced man with a ruddy complexion and a swiftly developing hernia who seems to have made it his life’s mission to follow her about the ship and prevent her having a moment either to herself or with her husband.

 

It’s supposed to be her honeymoon, and yet three nights on the trot Captain Erving has appeared at their cabin door with some pathetically transparent excuse about needing to speak to her husband about headings. Or currents. Or cheese.

 

When Killian had returned to bed the third time having reassured the so-called Captain that the cheese supply was undiminished by stowaway rats, she’d threatened to answer the door in a negligee and finish the puce-faced old prude off via a tragic but well-timed heart attack.

 

The corner of her mouth ticks up slightly as she remembers Killian’s reaction to that particular idea, the possessive burn of scruff against thigh and the shredding of the intended attire, and the young deckhand obviously takes that as permission to continue.

 

“He says you must come down, my lady. It’s not safe.”

 

“Tell _Mr_ Erving that I am safer up here than he is with me down there.”

 

“My lady -”

 

“Can you not?” Emma sighs, and shuffles to the edge of the platform. The deckhand pales, shifting his weight as she leans further forward and lets her arms dangle between her knees. “It’s Emma. Not my lady, not your Highness, not any of the other ridiculous terms he’s told you to use, okay? Emma. And until he leaves, I’m not going anywhere.” She folds her arms over her chest and grins. “He wants me that badly he can come get me himself.”

 

The deckhand smiles then, a swift little thing but still more than she’s used to seeing on the faces of these professional sailors.

(The last time she’d been party to such an unhappy bunch of travelling companions it had ended in sea spray and terror and the less she thinks about _that_ when she’s perched in the rigging, the better.)

 

“I don’t imagine that’s very likely, my lady Emma.” He shoots a swift glance down to where Erving is pacing back and forth. “But we are to dock soon and Captain Jones will be most displeased if you’re absent.”

 

“If he’s allowed anywhere near me,” Emma grumbles, but she stands up nonetheless, grabbing one of the lines in her fist and curling her bare toes over the ropes. “Alright, move over.”

 

“My lady?”

 

“I’ve got this.”

 

She grabs the rope with both hands, and leaps past the alarmed looking deckhand to land fairly gracefully on the deck behind Happy with only mildly friction burned palms to show for it.

 

“Huh, getting better,” she mutters, examining the pink skin before tucking her hands into the pockets of her breeches. Above her, the deckhand begins his own, longer, scramble to the deck and Erving turns on her with a thoroughly cheerless scowl.

 

“Your father won’t like that, your Highness. It’s irresponsible of you to take such risks with your life!”

 

“David’s seen worse,” she replies. “What did you want?”

 

“The Crown Princess  -”

 

“Nope.” Emma smiles but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Try again, and dont try the royalty tack with me. Been there, done that, not for me.”

 

“Problem?”

 

Her smile grows wider and more genuine at the sound of her husband’s voice at her back. It still seems bizarre to call him that - to call _anybody_ that - but she likes the sound of it even in her own head. Husband. Her husband. _Hers_.

 

Erving, if possible, turns even more red as Killian slips his arm around Emma’s waist and she takes his hook in her hand. She’s fairly sure he only wears it to make the other man uncomfortable.

 

It seems to work.

 

“Ah, Captain Hook.” Erving’s eyes drift over to the appendage. “Surely you’ll agree that it’s not appropriate for your wife to spend her time swinging from the rigging like a powder boy?”

 

Killian raises his eyebrows at her. She grins in return and holds out her hands, palms up.

 

“See? Getting better, right?”

 

Killian kisses each palm in turn and Emma can feel the disapproval coming from Erving in waves.

 

“Much. How was your landing?”

 

Emma shrugs. “Stuck it well enough. Next time I’ll practice with a sword.”

 

“You will not!”

 

“I think,” says Killian, far more calmly than his clenched fist suggests, “that what the lady does is the lady’s business, wouldn’t you say Erving?”

 

Erving blusters helplessly as Emma links her arm with Killian’s and turns them both toward the door to their quarters.

 

“Speaking of!” She says merrily. “Let us know when we arrive won’t you?”

 

Erving looks about wildly, hands outstretched.

 

“But - but - “

 

“Sorry!” Emma trills again, grinning at him over her shoulder as she pulls the door shut behind them. “Things to do!”

 

The latch shuts with a clang. Emma rests her forehead against the door and groans weakly.

 

“I need to feed him to an albatross. Or a mermaid. A kraken. Anything.”

 

“If you wish to stage a mutiny you only need say, love.” Killian tugs gently at the end of her braid so that she turns to face him. He smiles, bright in the low light, and she feels herself relax. “I know a man who would follow you anywhere.”

 

“Yeah?” She sways into him, upturned lips stealing a kiss. “He much of a sailor?”

 

“I think you’ll find him to be good at a great many things.”

 

She laughs at the sensation of his beard against her throat as his lips move lower and tugs at his shirt, moving away from the door as she does so.

 

“Come along, Captain Jones. I’ve uses for you.”

 

He grins, lifting his brows and tapping his hook against his lower lip.

 

“I’m at your service, Mrs Jones.”

 

She laughs, pulling him closer until she can kiss the curve of the hook. His expression softens, and she tightens her grip on his hand.

 

“Promise?”

 

“Always.”

 

\---

 

The setting sun has painted the cabin in rivers of gold and red, the light dappled where it reflects from the water below their window and hot where it lands on the juncture of Killian’s neck and shoulder. She runs her tongue over the spot again, revelling in the warmth, the salt, the way it makes his hips stutter against hers. Her calf protests the awkwardness of the position but it doesn’t much matter. Not when she’s encouraging him to move faster with her heel against his backside, his hook buried into the wood above her head, her knuckles white from holding on and she’s so close - so very -

 

 _Rap rap rap_.

 

The door vibrates behind her. Not at all in the way she’d been hoping.

 

She unhooks her leg from over his hip as though she’s been scalded, the motion quick enough to make him wince.

 

“Captain Jones? Your Highness? Are you uh - are you there?”

 

It’s a rather stupid question, Emma thinks. She’s pretty sure everyone within five nautical miles knows exactly where they are. And what they were doing. She groans under her breath, her face flushing from more than just effort.

 

Killian drops his forehead to hers and breathes the deep, focused breaths of a man plotting a murder.

 

“What. Is. It.”

 

“It’s the - that is to say - we uh - we’re approaching the harbour, Sir.” The voice outside the door quavers slightly and Emma mentally adds another black mark to the many by Erving’s name for sending a junior officer to do his dirty work. “You’re wanted.”

 

Killian opens his mouth to reply with something Emma is certain will give the young officer connipations so she speaks before he can.

 

“We’re coming,” she calls, kicking out at Killian’s shin as he sniggers into her hair. “Just changing!”

 

There’s a grumbled sound of acquiescence from outside the door, followed by the noise of the officer’s hurried retreat.

 

“Agrabah,” she says with a sigh as they disentangle themselves. “Is there much privacy there, do you think?”

 

“Oh I’ll find some,” Killian mutters grimly, glaring daggers at the door as he helps her with her laces. “Mark my words.”

 

—

 

 _The Lady Swan_ docks just as the sun touches the horizon, which doesn’t exactly endear Erving to Emma as she stands at the guardrail peering into the gathering dark.

 

“Couldn’t have missed this for the world,” she mutters, wrapping her arms around herself. “A real once in a lifetime moment.”

 

Killian huffs a laugh into the hair at the crown of her head.

 

“It may not look much now, love, but I assure you Agrabah is a land like no other.”

 

“I’ll take your word for it,” Emma says, holding onto the guardrail as the ship bumps into its berth. “Bed?”

 

“Araid not, your Highness.” Erving appears from nowhere and gestures to the darkening docks where a group of snorting horses can just be made out against the backdrop of distant hills. “We must ride tonight to make the city by dawn.”

 

“What’s the rush?” Emma asks, leaning back against Killian. “It’s been there a thousand years or more I can’t imagine one night will make much difference.”

 

“I must be there tomorrow,” says Erving shortly. “It’s not a matter of request.”

 

“You?” Killian raises an eyebrow. “I can assure you, Swan has no need of a bodyguard.”

 

“Why? Because she has you?” Erving sneers, casting a meaningful look at Killian’s hook.

 

“Because she has magic, and her wits, and could easily eviscerate any man who dared to cross her.” Killian beams at him. “Worth bearing in mind, wouldn’t you think?”

 

Emma adjusts her sword belt. Erving’s jaw twitches.

 

“I have business of the realm with Agrabah’s minister of trade,” he says. “I thought it pertinent to take the opportunity to accompany you to the city.”

 

“I bet you did,” grumbles Killian, but Emma is less interested in Erving’s constant hovering and more in his words.

 

Her mother’s missives have been as frequent as they’ve been long - even if Emma’s own replies have been somewhat perfunctory (attaching rolls of vellum to the leg of a song thrush is not as easy as it looks).

 

Not one of them had mentioned anything about business Snow may have with the kingdom of Agrabah. In fact Snow’s only reference to the place had been in cheerful jealously as _“it’s raining here again - your father swears he will finish the glazing by winter but I’ll believe it when I can feel my toes”._

 

“What business?” she snaps. “Isn’t the realm’s business my business? You’re the one who keeps on about Princesses.” Erving has the grace to look slightly abashed.

 

“I assure you, your highness. It’s nothing to trouble you, a mere discussion of trade tariffs that you would care little to hear of, but if we are to make the city in time for my meeting we must be off.  I’m sure Captain Jones and yourself will have your own business to attend to...”

 

He trails off, turning to disembark, and leaves Emma scowling after him.

 

“I’ll give him business,” she mutters darkly. “Who does he think he is?”

 

“The bane of my life,” grumbles Killian. “Are you quite sure he isn’t a dwarf? He behaves as though he hatched from an egg.”

 

Emma hums, tilting her head to one side in consideration. “He is pretty short.”

 

“And it’s something your father would do, after all,” Killian grumbles. “Send a hatchling to chaperone a honeymoon.”

 

Emma shakes her head.

 

“I think David is well aware that that ship sailed long ago, or have you forgotten how we traumatised him?”

 

For a moment she sees Killian’s expression brighten at the memory but it turns sour again almost immediately and she almost laughs at the way he hunches his shoulders and glowers at the back of Erving’s head.

 

“Didn’t traumatise him enough if you ask me.”

 

“Come on,” Emma sighs. “Quicker we get the business over with quicker we can get to the pleasure.”

 

She hears his laugh on the breeze as she turns away, and lets his reply of “Do you promise?” spur her on through the night.

 

\---

 

The air is hot and heady, spices tart on her tongue as they enter the shady lanes of the bazaar. The narrow paths are overshadowed by hundreds of canopies that hang high above their stalls. Emma stares open mouthed at the mounds of strange fruits, the hanging carcasses, the odd whirring, chiming contraptions that are offered for sale. Someone is playing a pipe, and a cobra rises from its basket swaying in time to the music and following Emma with it’s cold, black eyes.

 

The people of Agrabah seem cheerful and pleased to see the strangers in their midst; women in headscarves smear thick, scented oils on her arms as she walks by and hold up bolts of brightly coloured silks. Intricately woven tapestries are lain at her feet by men with long beards, and everywhere they are followed by a crowd of dark eyed children who pester the officers for coin and crow delightedly when Killian obliges them.

 

“You shouldn’t encourage them,” mutters Erving from the corner of his mouth.

 

“What?” Killian asks. “To eat? I’ll concern myself with my conscience, Erving. You worry about your own.”

 

Emma squeezes his hook and smiles.

 

“Not very piratical.”

 

Killian’s lips twitch wryly.

 

“Wasn’t always a pirate.”

 

“I know.” She bumps her shoulder against his arm. “Wasn't always a princess.”

 

“Oh,” he says, smiling down at her. “I don't know about that.”

 

The marketplace stalls begin to spread out slightly, their wares more expensive now and hovered over protectively by shrewd businessmen. Jewels glint in the desert sun, golden treasures squirreled into walnut boxes when their owners see Killian approach.

 

“Your reputation precedes you,” grumbles Erving. Killian puffs out his chest in pride.

 

“Not much point cultivating one if it doesn't, mate.”

 

Erving’s mouth narrows until his lips are a thin line.

 

“Let us hope it hasn't followed you here at least, for their Majesties sakes.”

 

Here is a castle beyond anything Emma has ever seen. Each tower is crowned with a minaret that soars up into the bright blue sky, each wall painted a blinding, flawless white that has her shading her eyes and wincing as the great intricately carved door opens.

 

Beyond it stands a tall man, stooped beyond his years, with sharp eyes and a sharper smile and all at once Emma knows that whatever trade deal Erving hashes out with this man it will be of no benefit to the kingdom of Misthaven. He reminds Emma of the cobra from the marketplace, his teeth dripping with venom and desperate to strike.

 

She strikes first.

 

“Emma of Misthaven. I come on behalf of my mother, Queen Snow.”

 

“Of course you do. You are most welcome in Agrabah, as are -” His eyes flick over to Killian. “ _All_ of your party. Come in.”

 

He beckons them through into a great hall, its vaulted ceiling made of brilliant white marble that sends their words echoing eerily around them.

 

“We were all most impressed to hear of your defeat of Queen Regina,” the minister says as he smiles his snake-like smile. “She was not the strongest proponent of inter-Kingdom trade. Although I believe many of our own less delightful characters were - distressed, to hear of her death.”

 

“I didn’t kill her,” Emma says, quickly enough that the minister’s eyebrows shoot up in alarm.

 

“Well of course,” he says, “a lady of your - well.” He nods at Killian, still standing ramrod straight beside the door. “I assumed your mercenary -”

 

“Pirate,” says Killian at the same time as Emma says “Husband.”

 

The minister inclines his head in acknowledgement.

 

“As you wish, of course. You have done your Kingdom a service, Sir.”

 

“Not I,” says Killian mildly. “Swan showed her mercy - which is more than I would have done under the circumstances, but then -” he raises a brow conspiratorially “heroes, eh?”

 

Emma flushes pink and shrugs her shoulders.

 

“Hardly a hero.”

 

“Many would disagree,” interjects the minister. “But forgive me, if she is not dead then -“

 

“Banished,” says Erving shortly. He pulls awkwardly at the lapels of his jacket, sweat beading on his upper lip. “And no longer a concern to the free kingdoms. Now, shall we?”

 

“Of course, of course,” demurs the minister and gestures for them to follow him into an antechamber hidden behind a rich velvet curtain. “You must be hungry after such a journey, and it would not do to discuss business on an empty stomach. Perhaps later my wife could take you on a tour of the palace?”

 

Killian and Emma share a look.

 

“Shall we?” says Erving again. He’s twitchy, Emma notices, his forehead beading with sweat.

 

Maybe she should speak to her parents. They may have more experience of ruling a Kingdom than her, but they did manage to get themselves cursed for the better part of three decades.

 

Maybe she does have a few tips she could offer them after all.

 

“All right,” she says, lifting her chin. “After you.”

 

\---

 

There’s sand between her toes and the back of her neck is damp from exertion and the high desert sun, but Emma is laughing as she half staggers down the dusty street. She’s practically dragging Killian behind her, almost bodily throwing him against the wall of the shady alleyway she bolts into, but his protestations are quickly smothered by her kiss.

 

“Shhhh,” she whispers, pulling back slightly to smile against his mouth. You don’t want to get caught, do you?“

 

“Caught doing what, exactly?” Killian chases her lips with his own, but settles for nipping at her jawline as she peers out into the sunbaked street. “I’m not the one causing a scandal.”

 

“Oh really?” Emma tucks her body against his and turns her face away as a group of local soldiers march by. “I didn’t hear you complaining about lack of propriatry at the time.”

Killian hums, and runs the pad of his thumb across her lower lip.

 

“I was distracted.”

 

Emma grins, and lets her tongue tease the tip of his thumb. “Yeah, well, so were Erving and the minister of trade.”

 

“And his wife,” Killian adds. “She seemed… rather interested in proceedings. More interested than in trade talks, anyway.”

 

Emma shrugs, and her grin turns a little wicked.

 

“Perhaps he ought to be thanking us. She seemed quite the harridan. Ten minutes of peace and quiet in exchange for the use of a side room sounds like a fair trade to me.”

 

“Ten minutes?” Killian pouts slightly and Emma has to quash the urge to bite it. “You wound me.”

 

Emma pulls back and pretends to ponder the idea. “Twelve, then.”

 

He spins her so quickly that the breath is rather knocked out of her, and she barely has time to recover before his hand is at her waist and his mouth is at her throat.

 

“Start timing,” he growls, all seriousness, and she sniggers as she bats his hand away.

 

“Maybe later,” she says, and then, as his teeth make his opinion on that idea clear, “ _definitely_ later. But if we don’t get back to the ship Erving will have a search party out for us.” Another group of soldiers pass the entrance to the alley, these ones a little more swiftly, their blades drawn. “Presuming,” Emma continues with a sigh, “he hasn’t already.”

 

“I’m going to have words with your father when we return,” Killian says solemnly, standing up straight and fixing the mess he’s made of her dress. “That man is unbearable.”

 

“That was probably the point,” Emma concedes, taking him by the hand and taking a furtive look to ensure the coast is clear. “Now come on, if we’re lucky we’ll -”

 

“Your Highness!”

 

Emma groans and steps out into the street to see midshipmen Robins, a spotty teenager who never quite averts his eyes quickly enough for her liking.

 

“Your Highness!” he pants again, hands on pale knees as he struggles to catch his breath. “The minister said you’d left.”

 

“The minister is very observant,” Emma says dryly. “What’s your point?”

 

“There’s news, my lady, a letter. The captain says it’s urgent.”

 

Killian scoffs slightly - what he thinks of the captain’s opinions is hardly going to be news to Robins - but Emma feels a sick, squirming sensation deep in her belly.

 

“Urgent?”

 

“Aye my lady.” Robin’s nods, eyes wide. “From the Queen.”

 

“Is she all right?” The squirming sensation makes its way up her throat, bile sharp at the back of her mouth. _Not now. Not when I’ve just found them. Not now._

 

Robins gapes at her, then his eyes widen in realisation.

 

“Not from Queen Snow, my lady. It’s the Evil Queen. It seems she’s back.”


	2. Turn to Dust

_The Lady Swan_ is quicker under Killian’s command, but still not quick enough. Emma spends her days hanging over the bow rail desperately scanning the horizon for birds that don’t come, her twitching, shaking hands leaving scorch marks in their wake.

 

The relief she feels when Misthaven’s coast finally appears is tempered by that same sickening nervous energy, her magic on high alert and her skin itching with it.

 

“Home sweet home,” says Killian grimly as the ship keeps parallel with the shore. “Are you alright Swan?”

 

“I’ll be better when I know what’s going on.”

 

The letter hasn’t exactly been reassuring, but nor had it been full of the sort of cackling glee Emma might have expected. It wasn’t full of much at all, really. A single line written in smart cursive on thick parchment.

 

_Return at once, we have much to discuss._

 

_Regina R._

 

She’d almost laughed. If it hadn’t been written on parchment bearing Misthaven’s Royal Crest, she might have ignored it entirely.

 

A joke. It had to be a joke. Surely.

 

Except, of course, it wasn’t.

 

“I suspect that might not be entirely true,” Killian says grimly as the royal dock hoves into view, “but I admire your faith.”

 

“Thanks, I think.”

 

“There’s some comfort, anyway.” He nods toward the dockside where her parents’ standard flutters in the leeward breeze.

 

“Do you think redecorating would really be Regina’s first priority?” Emma asks, wryly. Killian scoffs.

 

“You forget I’m older than I look, love. And from what I recall from her last rise to power, appearances are _everything_.”

 

“I forgot I was married to a walking corpse,” Emma mutters, swallowing her nerves long enough to cast a sideways glance at his horrified expression.

 

“ _Excuse_ me?”

 

“You started it.” She pushes off the guardrail and checks her sword where it hangs at her side. “Ready, old man?”

 

“Aye.” Killian draws his own weapon, and without taking his eyes from the dock bellows instructions to the crew. “...and look lively lads, we know not what we sail into!”

 

“Nor whom we sail for,” mutters Erving darkly. “These are uncertain times.”

 

“Only for a man whose loyalty can be bought,” says Killian, gripping his sword a little tighter.

 

“Says a pirate,” scoffs Erving. “How are we to know you won’t turn your coat again?”

 

“He won’t,” Emma snaps, turning her own weapon on Erving. “I trust him. You I’m less certain of.”

 

Erving withdraws slightly at the point of her cutlass, but his expression only turns more grim.

 

“Then we’d both best pray your parents still live.”

 

“To save your own skin?” Killian shakes his head, lowering his sword as he does so. “Who’s the pirate again?”

 

“That’s enough.” Emma looks out at the empty dockside through narrowed eyes. “Erving, you and your men stay with the ship. Killian and I will head to the castle, find my parents and get to the bottom of this.”

 

“Not a hope.”

 

“Is that wise?”

 

“Oh now you agree with each other?”

 

“You have no idea, your Highness, what you may find. You alone would surely be no match for the Evil Queen and her forces.”

 

Killian scowls. “She wouldn’t be alone.”

 

“And I thought you and I were in agreement.”

 

“We _agree_ that the Princess should not be anywhere near the Evil Queen.”

 

“The _Princess_ ,” spits Emma, “is right here! And I’ve dealt with Regina before.”

 

“I’ll go alone,” Killian grits out, “There’s no chance she hasn’t already realised we’ve arrived, but if I can make a private approach -”

 

“Spoken like a true pirate! I -”

 

“Enough!”

 

Both men drop their swords, the steel glowing red hot and leaving dark singe marks on the deck.

 

“Ouch,” Killian says, shaking out his hand and raising both his brows. “Problem, Princess?”

 

“Yeah a massive one,” Emma seethes, tampig her magic down as best she can. “My parents kingdom - _my_ kingdom - is possibly being over run by a psychotic witch and _you two_ are too busy comparing _sword sizes_ -”

 

“Hardly a comparison, love.”

 

“-to _listen_ . Regina wrote _to me_ . This is _my job_ .” She points at Killian. “You can come with me. But only because I don’t trust you to stay here with _him_.”

 

“Charming,” mutters Killian.

 

“Delightful,” grumbles Erving.

 

“Now come on.” Emma waves her hand, and Killian’s sword resheathes itself neatly at his waist. “Armageddon won’t wait forever.”

 

\---

 

Armageddon is…

 

Quiet.

 

The castle has changed in the time they’ve been away. There are tapestries hung over the worst of the damaged walls, ones that feature bluebirds and woodlands and children with hair like sunlight that Emma can’t quite bear to look at too closely. The broken windows are reglazed with bright glass and the floors are swept clean of the plaster dust and straw that had been fixtures of Emma’s own brief period of occupancy.

 

But the kitchens are empty. The corridors silent.

 

Wordlessly they approach the closed door of the throne room, and draw their swords.

 

Here, the air is thicker. Blue flames flicker in the sconces and cast strange shadows against walls that are bare of tapestries. Emma’s magic fizzes out a warning deep in her bones and she clutches her sword a little tighter.

 

“Redecorating not her priority you say?” Killian whispers.

 

“She always did have a flare for the dramatic,” Emma admits. “I’m surprised she hasn’t accessorised with the beating hearts of her enemies.”

 

“Again?” Killian chuckles quietly but there’s little joy in it. “How passé.”

 

They enter the throne room unaccosted, weapons at high point.

 

“Emma!”

 

Emma’s sword drops to the floor with a clatter and the air is knocked from her chest. For a moment her magic fires from her fingertips, sparking against the blue lights before dimming away to nothing under the force of her mother’s hug.

 

“Unexpected,” says Killian, smiling as he sheaths his sword. “But preferable.”

 

Emma hums in something that isn’t quite agreement, and pats the sobbing queen awkwardly on the back.

 

“This is… nice? Hello.”

 

“Oh Emma, I’m so glad to see you!” Snow pulls back, and takes hold of Emma’s face in both her hands before adding,  “You too, Killian.”

 

Killian grins, and dips his head in a bow.

 

“Your majesty.”

 

“Oh please, spare me.”

 

There’s a scream of metal, a shower of sparks, and the evil queen laughs, long and low, from where she sits in the shadows at the side of Snow’s throne.

 

“You’ve gone soft, Saviour. I’d be touched if I weren’t so nauseated.”

 

“What the hell are you doing here?” Emma snaps, magic still fizzing in her palms.

 

“Emma it’s ok,” Snow soothes, “it’s quite safe.”

 

“ _Safe_ ?” Emma splutters. “ _Safe_? You’re mad. You’re crazy. You’re - ” she steps back, eyes wide and hands held up before her. “ - not my mother, are you.”

 

“Emma!” Snow gasps. “Don’t be ridiculous -”

 

“Me?! Me be ridiculous?”

 

“Your majesty with all due respect -“

 

“She _drugged_ you!” Emma cries, cutting Killian off, “Drugged you for decades and murdered and - where’s dad?” Another flare of light from her palms and the Evil Queen’s mouth grows thinner. “Where’s Dad?”

 

“Oh calm down,” she sneers. “You don’t think I have better things to do than go around offing recalcitrant shepherds?”

 

“Not especially,” says Killian, all false brightness as he steps in front of Emma with his sword held high, “no.”

 

“Relax,” Snow pleads. “I promise -“

 

A doorway to a small antechamber opens, and a grey haired figure enters with a swoop of a fine ermine cloak.

 

“I see this is going about as well as I predicted.”

 

“David.” Killian lets a out a sigh of relief, but doesn’t move or sheathe his sword. “Late to the party I see.”

 

“Not really my scene,” David says, smiling grimly as he moves to stand beside Snow. “but needs must.”

 

Killian raises an eyebrow. “Must they?”

 

“Alright.” Emma lowers her hands and rests them on her hips. “Explain.”

 

Snow looks to David, and the two of them move back to their thrones. Emma and Killian follow, keeping a wise distance from where Regina watches them with sharp, hooded eyes.

 

“Would you believe,” she says, her teeth a flash of white in the darkness. “That I’ve turned over a new leaf?”

 

Killian scoffs.

 

“A tornado couldn’t turn your leaf over, your Evilness.”

 

“My name,” she grits out, “is Regina.”

 

“That’s not what they call you on the streets.”

 

“And what do they call you, Captain _Jones_?” Regina lifts a perfect brow. Killian grins.

 

“Would you like a list?”

 

“This isn’t helpful,” Snow says, fingers rhythmically tapping against the armrest of her throne. She addresses them all but her gaze is fixed on Regina, her already pale complexion almost translucent in the cold magical light.

 

“Helpful how?” Emma cries, frustrated. “What the hell is going on? Where is everyone?”

 

“Hiding,” says Regina. “They’re not all fools.”

 

“From you?” Emma wrinkles her nose. “Not surprising.”

 

“Me?” Regina laughs coldly. “Hardly. There are far worse creatures than I.”

 

“I find that challenging to believe,” mutters David, and Emma flashes him half a smile.

 

“Believe it or not, shepherd, it’s the truth. Just ask your son in law.” Regina tilts her head and smiles almost sweetly at Killian. “After all, it’s not just women’s hearts he steals, is it?”

 

Emma scowls.

 

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“Children, please,” snaps Snow. “We haven’t time for this. Tell them what you told us, Regina.”

 

“Oh yes, please do.” Killian drops to the floor and sits cross-legged, chin resting on the curve of his hook. “I do enjoy a good tall tale.”

  


Regina’s expression doesn’t shift from its state of sour displeasure.

 

“When the two of you took off on your little Hero’s Journey to find Mommy and Daddy dearest, you failed to take into account the sort of people you’d be encountering.”

 

Killian smirks and lifts a brow in David’s direction, but David shakes his head sharply and Regina continues uninterrupted.

 

“That ridiculous leggy mermaid and her fancy man were one thing, but then you go involving _fairies_.” If possible, Regina’s face becomes even more pinched with disgust. “I would have thought you would have known better, Saviour. Since you spent your whole childhood with the untrustworthy little insects.”

 

“And whose fault was that,” Emma begins, but she too is silenced by a look from her father. “Are you telling me _Tinkerbell_ is evil?”

 

“I’d believe it,” mutters Kilian under his breath, but Regina is already snorting out a denial.

 

“Hardly. The little mosquito hasn’t the brain power for it. If she had, she wouldn’t have sent you after _her_.”

 

“The witch,” Emma says. “The witch who helped us?”

 

Killian moves to pull her into his side, the action almost as unconscious as the fear beneath his sneering tone.

 

“As fascinating as your ramblings are your Evilness, do you think you might eventually get to the point?”

 

Regina turns her glare on Killian, and Emma’s magic boils in her fingertips.

 

“Tell me, _Hook_. Exactly what do you think the witch was getting out of assisting you on your oh so touching quest? Warm fuzzy feelings?”

 

“She said there was a price,” Emma says softly, and Regina rolls her eyes.

 

“There always is. Your fairy friends should have taught you that. Magic always comes with a price.”

 

“So you’re, what? Here to collect on her behalf?” Emma shakes her head sharply and steps out of Killian’s embrace. “I don’t deal with third parties.”

 

“Ah,” tuts Regina, and for a moment she looks ineffably smug. “But she does. And as I said, there are far worse than I out there.”

 

“Still sounds unlikely,” David mutters, but Emma’s attention is on Killian, on the way he stiffens and pales at Regina’s words.

 

“He knows,” Regina says, a trifle gleefully. “He’s figured it out. Not bad for a man with more fingers than brain cells.”

 

Killian drops his sword arm, his face slack in horror.

 

“It can’t be,” he says, “it’s impossible.”

 

“Impossible means nothing to a creature like him. I’d have thought you of all people would have known that.”

 

“Killian?”

 

He isn’t looking at her, isn’t looking at any of them, his eyes are dark and his gaze is distant and Emma is filled with the sudden terrible feeling that he’s gone somewhere she shouldn’t follow.

 

“The Dark One,” he growls, and she knew that didn’t she. Knew the moment that shadow crossed his face.

 

It shouldn’t be, though. It _can’t_ be.

 

“But he’s gone! Into a portal to another realm, how could he be back?”

 

“Seems like your method of banishment could use some work,” Regina says with some relish. “Even death himself cannot contain the Dark One. Some measly portal was hardly going to cause him a problem.”

 

“I could have killed you,” Emma mutters. “Maybe I should have.”

 

“Maybe,” says Regina. “But then, what would you do without me.”

 

“I think you’ll find,” says Snow, her voice cool and level and soothing Emma’s rising panic, “that you came to _us_ for help.”

 

“Because _you_ ,” and Regina’s pointing at Killian now and Emma can finally see the cuff around her wrist, holding back her magic if not her rage, “are the fool who got us into this mess.”

 

Killian’s eyebrows disappear into his hairline.

 

“Come again?”

 

“The darkness isn’t created by just one man - it’s huge, bigger than any mortal soul. It’s an entity made of bile and spite and hatred and _you_ -“ she jabs her finger at Killian again “you lost the only means of controlling it in the middle of the _ocean_.”

 

“The dagger,” Emma breathes.

 

“Not quite as stupid as you look,” sneers Regina. “But yes. Without that dagger the darkness is untethered. Free to destroy whatever it chooses and anything that gets in its way.”

 

“What I don’t understand,” Killian says, “is quite why that would concern _you_?”

 

Regina looks at him as though he’s something particularly ugly dragged in on the hem of her cloak.

 

“I kept him in a dungeon and let you throw him through a portal.”

 

“A fair point,” Killian concedes, but Emma’s already shaking her head.

 

“So what are we supposed to do? The dagger’s gone, you can’t honestly expect us to _find_ it?”

 

“Hardly,” Regina scoffs. Snow interjects before another round of insults can begin.

 

“Without the dagger, the only hope we have of fighting dark magic is with _light_ magic.” She fixes Emma with a smile. “Magic like _yours_ , Emma.”

 

“Mine?” Emma protests, “but I can’t - I can hardly -“

 

“You’re the Saviour, aren’t you?” Regina’s mouth twists, vicious and a little bit victorious. “So save us.”

 

—-

 

There are days he misses his sheep. This is turning out to be one of them.

 

He dismisses Regina back to her cell under the watchful eye of Grumpy, and then turns to watch Emma’s retreating back. Killian’s hand is firmly settled between her shoulder blades and David tries to dig his fingers into the wood of his throne.

 

“Do you think she’s okay?” asks Snow, twitching in the throne next to him as though barely resisting the urge to rush after their departing daughter. She’s like that a lot, he’s noticed. Flighty in a way he doesn’t recall her being during their war-riven youth. Nervous. “I didn’t want to worry her - “

 

“Well I don’t think inviting our mutual enemy to supper will have helped there.”

 

Snow sighs, sinking into her seat, and he immediately regrets his words.

 

“She’ll be fine,” he tries. Then, gritting his teeth somewhat, “she has Killian.”

 

Snow seems to relax a little. David’s jaw tightens further still.

 

“Yes, yes she does.” She turns to him with wide eyes, and it hits him how tired she looks suddenly, her steel grey hair falling into her eyes. “Do you think it’ll ever end?”

 

“What?”

 

“This!” Snow throws her hands up.”This - this constant second guessing ourselves, worrying, looking over our shoulders! I thought when Emma found us - I thought -”

 

David rises - a little slower and more creakily than he’d like - and pulls her into his arms. She relaxes against him as he rests his cheek against the crown of her head.

 

“It was never going to be easy,” he says, rocking slightly back and forth. “Even without this. Emma’s grown. She has her own life, her own ideas.”

 

He feels the gentle rumble of Snow’s laughter against his chest.

 

“Her own taste in men?”

 

David grunts.

 

“He could be worse.”

 

“High praise indeed.”

 

“I hope he sleeps with that hook on tonight, at any rate.”

 

Snow looks up at him. “Do you think she’s telling the truth?”

 

“Regina?” David scoffs. “Why would she change the habit of a lifetime?”

 

“She seemed to mean it.”

 

“She would, wouldn’t she.”

 

“No, I mean…” Snow steps out of the circle of his arms. “When I was lost - when she visited me - I knew her. I think I knew her better then than I ever did when my father was alive.She was… sad.”

 

“She was also poisoning your mind, Snow, or did you forget?”

 

“I know. I _know_. I just - I can’t help but believe there’s something to this tale of hers. Some truth. She didn’t have to turn herself over to us. We could have killed her on sight.”

 

“And most people would say we should have,” David agrees. “But we didn’t.”

 

“No.” Snow turns, looks out over the shadowed empty hall, and sighs. “I didn’t.”

 

—-

 

The door to their room shuts with a solid, final sounding _click_ , but Emma’s waving her hand at the lock without even thinking about it. No harm in extra security. She has worse things to keep out than Erving, now.

 

Killian is immediately beside her, and she allows him to pull her close, rubs at her throbbing temples and leans back against the comforting warmth of his chest.

 

“Do you ever wonder if you’ve made a horrible mistake?” she asks, closing her eyes. She feels the rumble of his laugh all the way to her toes.

 

“Darling my whole life has been one horrible mistake after another, with one very notable exception.”

 

“Oh yeah?” Emma smiles despite herself. “What was that?”

 

“Chasing down a particularly bold and beautiful thief in order to recover my property.”

 

“And did you? Recover it?”

 

He presses his lips to the crown of her head and she hums in satisfaction, her migraine already fading away. It’s hard, when they’re together like this, to think about the world outside of Killian’s embrace.

 

“I discovered a greater treasure still. One I have no intention of losing.”

 

Emma sighs and turns her face into his neck.

 

“That’s a comfort.”

 

He laughs again, and winds his hand through her hair.

 

“I try.”

 

Hard, sure. But not impossible.

 

“What are we going to do?”

 

“Well, we could liberate your parents’ flagship. I’ve some experience, after all.”

 

“And what? Run away?”

 

“If that’s what you wanted, I’d be gone in a heartbeat. But it isn’t, is it.”

 

It isn’t a question, but Emma shakes her head anyway.

 

“It doesn’t matter what I want.”

 

“Of course it matters!”

 

“No. No I thought maybe I could run away - that we could get away from all this and just _be_. But it doesn’t work like that, does it.”

 

“What doesn’t?”

 

“Being the saviour.”

 

“Being the Saviour, or being Emma?”

 

“Is there a difference?”

 

“I believe so.”

 

Emma sighs into his skin, and tightens her grip on his hook as though to steady herself against the doubts she can already feel creeping into her heart.

 

“You might be the only one who does.”

  


\---

 

On the ship her dreams have been peaceful, forgettable sorts of things. The memory of them little more than smoke that fades before she can catch it.

 

On land they’re something different.

 

The woods around her mother’s cottage are as wild and as dark as she remembers, the silence as oppressive, but she’s not scared. Not now. There’s blood on her belly again but the cursed arrow is long gone and she stands, tall and strong, in the centre of the clearing, watching the woods for something she expects but cannot name.

 

The shadows along the treeline lengthen and merge, thickening into something solid that steps out, forward, towards her - and she ought to run, she knows that, even in her dreams.

 

She ought to run.

 

She holds out her hand.

 

—-

 

“I appear to still be here.” The disembodied head of the Dark One sits amongst the flames of her fire, the small cottage that she’s forced to call home filled with smoke, the scent of sulphur, and his displeasure. “You aren’t holding up your end of this deal, Zelena.”

 

Zelena looks up from her looking glass, irritation clear as the image of the Saviour and her pretty boy lover is dashed.

 

“You’re very impatient for an immortal, aren’t you.”

 

The Dark One glares at her, but she only lifts a brow at his impertinence. She holds the power in this room. Even if he doesn’t know it yet.

 

“I may be immortal, but _you_ aren’t. I’d prefer if you got me out of this hellhole before you crumble into dust.”

 

“I’m a busy woman, Rumple,” she says, taking pleasure at the way he grimaces at the old, old nickname. “What? Can’t I call you by your real name? And here was I thinking we were such good friends.”

 

He scowls, and her smile grows wider.

 

“Busy with what?” he says, and she laughs. Age has changed it from the bell-like sound of her youth to something more of a cackle. More suitable for an old woman who lives in the woods in a house made of sugared treats.

More _wicked_.

 

She likes it. The Dark One doesn’t. He’s still glaring at her as of there’s anything he can do from his enforced banishment. As though he isn’t _relying_ on her. _Desperate_.

 

She likes desperation, too.

 

There’s been so much of it lately. She’d be a fool not to take advantage.

 

She leans down until her nose is only an inch or so from the leaping green flames, and grins.

 

“Oh, wouldn’t you like to know.”

 

She cuts off whatever retort is brewing behind the Dark One’s sneer with a wave of her hand, the fire dying away to nothing but ashes and smoke and taking him with it.

 

“Really,” she scoffs to no one at all, “the _ingratitude_.”

 

She tosses her head, and her hair shimmers, gleaming, back to the vibrant red of her youth. From a small wooden box on the table she pulls a chain of gemstones and shells that she holds up to the light before tying it around her wrist, her smile growing ever wider.

 

“Still. Patience, patience, _dearie_ ” she chides the smouldering fire, and taps one long nail against the gems. “We have an appointment with royalty.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am? So? Sorry?
> 
> I could give you a million excuses as to my absence, but they wouldn't make the gap any shorter so I won't bother you with them. Suffice to say if you fancy sending any encouragement my way it would be really, really appreciated.


End file.
